


Pomegranate

by Mx_Maneater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Ginny Weasley, F/F, Femslash, Fruit metaphors, Holyhead Harpies, Implied/Referenced Sex, Lesbian Ginny Weasley, Lesbian Pansy Parkinson, POV First Person, POV Ginny Weasley, Poetic, Pomegranates, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27862645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maneater/pseuds/Mx_Maneater
Summary: Ginny can't take her eyes (or mind) off Pansy's pomegranate lipstick.  The rest is a natural unfurling.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 18
Kudos: 26





	Pomegranate

**Author's Note:**

> Me, this morning: I'm going to write a poem about eating pomegranates.
> 
> Me, appr. 1 minute later: All my thoughts about pomegranates are far too erotic; LET'S WRITE A FIC INSTEAD!

1\. 

_Pomegranate_. It’s the color of her lipstick. She smirks at me through a ring of swarthy red, and the effect is my utter undoing.

2.

We work together, you see – Pansy and I. Not directly and not familiarly enough to call ourselves “colleagues,” but enough for me to wish that our paths had never crossed. Me: dauntless chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Her: the only reporter to consistently document our matches and our wins. 

Coach says that most men still view us as an interruption to “their” game and that our team has dedicated nearly 800 years to proving them wrong. You’d think that after all this time, they’d get the picture by now, but Pansy just sighs and tells us the well-worn injustices on the _Prophet’s_ newsroom floor. How they’ll all volunteer for assignments reporting on so-and-so’s big match or such-and-such great upcoming player – all nameless, faceless wizards between the ages of 17 and 70 – and how, at the end of the meeting, she’ll always pipe up and say, “What about the Harpies?” 

Now, I can picture the next part clearly without her even having to describe it. Old Jeremy Hoswallow sits up high on his raised podium, judging – as if he were a lawmaker rather than a _sports editor_ – and says, “Why Pansy, that role is perfect for _you_.” He doesn’t say something gauche like “because _you’re_ a woman too,” nothing so indiscreet as that. He simply lets his eyes trail down the smooth curve of her impeccably-tailored pencil skirt and lets his condescension speak for itself.

I come from a long line of proud women – both in my family and on my team – and I refuse to let that be the last word. I wear my green uniform with its golden talon over my heart, and more than anything I wish my rage would transform me into our namesake so that I may savage out his eyes. He doesn’t _deserve_ to look; I want to make him _stop looking_ – and the worst part of it all is my guilt.

Because I know that I’m looking too.

3.

She knows that she’s ruining me – driving me mad with the most whimsical lilt of her hand, the most innocuous motion of curling a black lock behind her ear. Every now and then, she looks at me from the stands, and a stray bludger is my punishment for letting her distract me. At times, I think she’s planning it, like the slipstream Slytherin she is, and my momentum is just the calculated suction of her wake. 

Other times, I catch a fleeting shadow of her blush, and I wonder if the momentum has been my own all along.

4.

She sticks around after most games, claiming that if she’s done the work to report the outcome, she might as well document the after-party – she’s “not a masochist, after all.” Her words plant seeds of treachery within me, as my mind narrows to a pin-point, burning question: if not that, then what _is_ she? 

I betray myself plenty on those nights – stealing sips from her drinks and pretending I’m so drunk that I think they’re actually mine, as if I could ever mistake the dark lipstick rim on the glass as having come from my naked mouth. Or falling into the chair next to her as if I believe I’ve been sitting there all along. It’s an experiment in brazenness, determining how far I will go before my confidence crumbles into a confused desperation. 

She’s friendly with all the girls, so she takes my bizarre advances in stride. Sometimes, she smirks at me like she knows what I’m up to, and my insides are replaced with a bowl of scrambled eggs. There’s a heat there as well, and I have no clue what to do with it. I take another sip of her drink and repeat to myself that I have no clue what to do with it. 

But at the same time, I know: I know _exactly_ what to do with it.

5.

I’ve never kissed a girl, but I know that I’d like to. I dreamed of it sometimes at Hogwarts, remembering that dance Harry shared with Parvati at the Yule Ball, and then convincing myself that I’d only been watching them for Harry. The truth unfurls, though, like her pink silk dress in my mind. I recall the dance in fragments – clicking there and gone between each clatter of golden bracelets. 

Her hand traced gently across his shoulder as they moved across the floor, but it was not the shoulder – or its owner – that I was focusing on.

In the years since I’ve graduated, I’ve learned to exorcise a lot of my shame. The girls on my team are like me – tough in ways that some women steer away from – and some are like me in more ways than one. Gwenog regularly brings Vivian to the after-game parties, and she’s not the only one with a steady girlfriend here to support her. 

I dream of coming here with Pansy, then chide myself for the ridiculousness, since she already attends most of the events anyway. But it’s the _way_ in which we’d be here that sends my heart racing and makes my skin burn with possibilities. Instead of staging an intricate dance of drinks and false mistakes, I’d have every reason to go to her from across the room. She’d be my center-point, my sun whose orbit I wouldn’t dare leave, and I could be _purposeful_ about it instead of slinking about in a way that doesn’t suit me at all. 

I am the first to remind people that I’m brave, but Pansy makes me weaker than I care to admit.

6.

The color of her lipstick is pomegranate, and some days I am so delusional with that knowledge that I scour shelves at the cosmetolo-witch’s until I am frustrated at the futility as well as my own pitifulness. None of the shades I pick up seem like hers, and I know it’s just because they look sterile without the creamy complement of her skin. I’d plead insanity if it would get me what I want, but no amount of jailtime or “happenstance” shopping will bring me closer to those lips. 

So I pick up a pomegranate from the farmer’s market when I’m on my way home. Today, that’ll just have to be enough.

7.

It’s a regular Tuesday when my life goes topsy-turvy. It starts the same as all the others – a game, a win, an afterparty – only this time, some prick makes it his prerogative to harass Pansy in the bar. She’s gone up to get drinks, just a simple journey ten feet from where we’re sitting, but it’s enough to leave her exposed. With the team, she is untouchable – _we_ are untouchable – I know he knows this, because he’s waited for her to step out of our bubble to attack. 

It’s not a physical attack, but it’s no less reprehensible. It starts with a hand thrown cavalierly on her shoulder, the man ignoring the way she stiffens before she turns with cutting scowl. Her pomegranate lips are pursed, and he must see the beauty in them that I do, because he doesn’t stop talking or remove his hand at the warning gaze. 

I can’t hear him from where I’m sitting, but I know that I hate him with my whole heart.

She takes a step back when he refuses to budge, and his posture shifts with the weight of rejection. I’m on my feet before I know it, and in the seconds it takes to reach her, he’s already moved into defensive rambling.

“-always in the papers – yeah, I know who you are. And you’d get a lot more acclaim as a reporter if you wrote about something other than _this_ group of dykes-”

He is interrupted by a hand on _his_ shoulder. It’s mine, and I can’t stop my nails from clenching down like a talon. “Get. Out.”

He doesn’t hear me, else he chooses not to, because he’s a _man_ and that’s what they _do_. But before he can say anything else, he is shoved from my grip, and Pansy is close – so _close_ – as she’s saying, “I’ll get my acclaim any way that I please! And perhaps that includes dating one of the _world’s_ _star chasers!_ ” 

I don’t have time to process that as my arms are filled with Pansy, and her lips find mine in a calamitous meeting that I won’t forget as long as I live. They are soft and plump and sweet, and I may be moaning a bit as she pulls away, because there’s a distinctly pleased expression floating about her face that I want to examine for the rest of my days. 

She glances over her shoulder to see him leaving, then looks back to me with mischief in her eyes. “Shall we ditch this place?”

8.

Lips. Sweet lips. They are all over me, swollen and smeared. I take hold of her in handfuls – first a cradling of her chin, then a fistful of her hair, and now a palmful of her breast. The heat is burning me now from within, and instead of quelling it, I feed all rational thought to the flames. 

She pulls my shirt off over my head, and I scramble to find the skirt zipper hidden expertly in one of her seams. With a laugh, she stills my clumsy, eager hands to take it off herself, and her hips – once revealed – dazzle me. I caress the waistband of her panties shakily, with a reverence far too revealing; but her breath catches, and for once, she’s shown her hand too. 

I grab the elastic with my thumbs and pull, and just like that she’s naked before me now. As swift as my elation, panic bubbles up in my throat. I’ve never done this before – never even _kissed_ a girl before – how am I to show her enough to impress her? 

With all the courage of my being, I lay my hands on either thigh. Her legs fold open like a fruit, and through my delusional, adrenaline-riddled haze, all I can think then is of the pomegranate I ate last week: the way my inexperienced hands cracked it open; the rubied wonder I found within. 

It’s a ludicrous thing for comparison, but I’ve thrown all sense to the fire already. My hands, hesitating only slightly now, strike a balance, just like they did then. I press with firm, gentle grip – enough to peel back the sarcotesta, enough that my hands don’t dare slip – and find that rhythmic motion, rolling pink seeds beneath my thumb at the perfect pressure to dislodge them without bruising, and _ohhh_ , she’s sighing now, and _holy hell_ , her hands are scraping through my shorn hair murmuring, “Ginny, ahh! _Gin_ ,” and I’m holding on for dear life, and she’s saying more – veritably _gushing_ – as I gasp and fumble for seeds, and my ears are only catching one in ten phrases that she’s uttering, the current one being “ _Hell_ ” and the next “Hell, _Gin_ – you perfect _devil_ ,” as her breaths echo stutteringly across her bedroom and my pomegranate falls to wet, sticky dissolution, _fuck_ -

9.

I’m standing in my kitchen next to a discarded knife. There is a sea of pink and red in front of me, and my hands are stained to the wrist with its juice. I feel messy and wrong-footed and _exhilarated_ , and the only thing delaying my satisfaction is my imminent meal.

I look down at the cutting board with more hunger than I can stand but know that it will all be sated soon.

10.

Pansy and I show up to parties together now. Not across-the-room together, but _properly_ together, and it’s everything I ever hoped for. I sip from her glass when she’s not looking, and the times she catches me, I just smile and pull her into my lap for a hug. 

She writes far too many articles about me, including pictures that aren’t always relevant. One even featured a photo of me just grinning and holding up my new broom – a pithy headline, if I ever saw one. Old Jeremy Hoswallow gives her grief about it sometimes, but not more than she can handle.

I think when I retire from Quidditch, I’ll be the next sports editor at the _Prophet._ It’s become a particular pleasure of mine to steal things that men think that they deserve. It’s not quite the eye-plucking harpy strike I’d planned in the past, but I’m feeling generous with the details of late. After all, no matter the scenario, the important part remains the same:

Anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hey hello, my bisexuality slipped out a bit in this story, but I had a lot of fun writing about Ginny and Pansy for the first time! I honestly love writing from Ginny's perspective, so I'll probably do it again in the future.
> 
> Thanks for reading - even though it's not my reguarly-scheduled Drarry updates!  
> xoxo


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